


Dissociation

by maroon_blaze



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 17:39:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1096679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maroon_blaze/pseuds/maroon_blaze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fifteen years after the fall of Lord Voldemort, Harry Potter is trapped in a Muggle insane asylum, powerless and unable to even lie in order to escape. Unbeknownst to him, his death has been faked so thoroughly that not even his own wife is looking for him a full five years after his life was stolen from him. Draco Malfoy, however, has developed a bit of a stubborn streak.<br/>**EDIT**Warning added and rating changed for future chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Patient

_Disassociation_

Disclaimer: Don't own. Not rich.

A/N I'm not sure what pairing I want for this or even if I'm making one at all. Just bear with me ppl. .

"Please."

The word was so soft that Dr. Holcomb barely heard it. But he looked up from his notes to peer over his glasses at the forlorn figure sitting across of him. The man's head was bowed low almost reaching the simple steel table in front of them, but they both knew he wouldn't be able to. The chains only allowed for minimal movement, after all.

The psychologist forced a smile on his face. He always felt uncomfortable around this one. There was just something about those eyes. "What was that?" he asked as congenial as possible, proud of himself when he didn't hear his voice wavering. He resisted the urge to once again look around the white-walled room and back to the reinforced Plexiglas door where he would most certainly see his burly "bodyguards.

"I want to go home."

The doctor, unaffected by the plea he had heard many times before, said, a little coldly, "You know you can't, Ethan. I'm afraid this is your home now."

"Not me," was the whispered reply from behind that veil of hair.

Dr. Martin Holcomb made a notation on the page in front of him to speak to someone about cutting that dark mop off. Normally, that would have been taken care of by now but with so many patients in residence a few things were bound to slip through the cracks.

"Sorry?" he said again still scribbling. "You'll have to be clearer than that, Mr. Dursley."

"That's not my bloody name!" The chains rattled violently as the man attempeted to lunge for him but Martin was already on the other side of the room. Green eyes pierced into him and he felt all the breath leave his lungs as he pressed his back to the wall.

" _My name is Harry!"_  the patient roared.  _"I'm Harry fucking Potter! Let me go you fucking mug-!"_ He was interrupted by a buzzer sounding behind him

Dr. Holcomb was pleased to note that the patient was quickly subdued, and then quite literally dragged kicking and screaming through the halls and back to his room where he would be slipped into a drug-induced sleep, most likely until breakfast the next morning.

Making a shakey recovery, Martin straightened his tie then noticed the time on his Rolex. "Oh my, almost time for evening tea with Mum," he mumbled before collecting his papers and quickly leaving in  _The Norman Grey Institute for the Criminally Insane._ If he was lucky he might just catch the tail end of  _Emma_  on the BBC.


	2. The Offer

Unbeta'd. If you see anything that needs correcting, please let me know. Enjoy!

Chapter 2: The Offer

The sun shone brightly in the Summer sky. Birds sang their glory and the clouds were polite enough to keep well away from that magnificent orb. All in all it was a picturesque Sunday afternoon. Draco couldn't have hated it more if he tried. The young blond scowled at that smug sun, hovering in that insipid monochromatic sky as he simultaneously resisted the urge to hurl a few well-aimed Unforgivables at the sneaky bastard fowl hiding in his trees.

Oh yes, Narcissa Malfoy knew exactly what was going on in her son's head. As she stood there in the open doorway with a silver tray holding earl grey tea, scones and two small plates of breakfast hovering at her back, she could see the wheels of maudlin frustration slowly churning in his head. He was brooding. In fact, it was entirely possible her son was sulking. It would be sheer suicide for anyone other than her to interrupt his musings at times like this. One could lose a limb, or worse. Luckily, it appeared Narcissa had some form of immunity. Mothers often hold that privilege.

On this particular day she had expected some form of inner turmoil from Draco. He always took the anniversary hard, still not having learned to let go. The whole of the wizarding world was mourning. There were still services being held all over the globe. However, at least those people have come to terms with the tragedy. They were collectively moving on in a healthy, constructive way. Personally, Narcissa thought her son's dramatics were excessive.

Nonetheless, she was and always would be his mother. It was her job to care for him, which included helping him gather his wits bout himself again, even when he insisted on acting like an infant. This maternal warmth was what had obligated her just that morning to oversee the house elves in making his favorite breakfast dishes; poached eggs, baguettes with red currant jelly, and an onion hashbrown, of all things. She had given the silly creatures a menu for a lunch and dinner she knew her Draco would love. She also sat down and penned out a plan detailing a whole day of distractions for him. Narcissa had even -generously, she thought- incorporated her somewhat recently querulous grandson into some of the activities.

Those plans had appeared perilously close to cancellation when a letter was owled in just as the Malfoy family was sitting down to breakfast, Scorpius nowhere to be found, of course. Immediately upon receiving the missive, Draco had forsaken his wonderfully smelling breakfast and raced up the stairs to his father's study, which over the years he had occupied and made his own.

Narcissa's chest swelled with pride as she watched Draco hunch over his ugly little desk and scribble something on parchment with a long peacock quill. He had become quite the little businessman. It was true his efforts had garnered them a lofty, yet still far too small in her opinion, sum in their vaults, yes, but he had managed through quick thinking and surprisingly effective PR campaigns to transform the Malfoy name from a nasty curse and a cautionary tale to a whispered applause within all the right circles. Even the rabble were singing their praises for his now numerous philanthropic works. Draco had made them reputable amongst their peers again in a way his mother had never thought possible.

Along with expertly fighting for the deed and returning the Manor and others to whom it rightfully belonged, he had reinstated the use of their vault in Gringotts. One would think this was cause for celebration, and it was for a time. Sadly, the celebration was short lived. The astronomically priced legal bills, reparations to much of the wizarding world, and severe restorations to not only the manor but Hogwarts as well –on Draco insistence– had taken their toll. The Malfoy vaults had been practically bare. At the time they had owned nothing but their land.

That all changed when Draco once again took the reigns and regained their fortune. Draco had parsed the properties into three categories, selling half outright, renting a third -either as homes or as tour museums-, and the last he created a little business of bread and breakfast for wealthy muggles of all things. When Narcissa had shown her misgivings about the venture, her son had insisted it was for the better as most of the properties had been around for centuries. Apparently muggles adored to gawk at those sorts of things.

During the opening interval of the startup company, Narcissa had been less than encouraged. She could nto see how a business that relied so heavily upon muggle affluence could produce any form of growth. Draco had been right, of course. They now had a sizable fortune that was growing by leaps and bounds every day.

When Draco threw down his quill to pace the room, Narcissa had decided she'd had enough rumination on both their parts and stepped from the shadowed hallway into the study.

"Since you have chosen to forego eating in the dining hall," she said, conjuring an appropriate chair -an emerald green Victorian highback with silver roses lovingly stitched into the cloth- for her to sit by the fire, "I had thought you would more appreciate your meal here." Narcissa primly set the tray on the small side table and set about pouring the tea. Magically, of course.

"I can't talk about it," Draco said automatically. As he sat himself rather unceremoniously in his personal brooding chair, he took a baguette and dipped it in his serving of jelly.

To some, his pose would have seemed one of graceful leisure, but Narcissa knew better. Her son was not agitated over a simple letter, something had him deeply troubled.

Ah, so it's finally come, Narcissa thought as she suppressed the smirk threatening and instead forced her mouth to form an indulgent smile.

"Of course, not, darling. The business dealings of the company are no place of mine." She magiced the sugar bowl to give her one spoonful and the spoon to stir lazily.

Draco flinched imperceptibly. "Mother, it's not the business," he said almost apologetically.

Narcissa took a sip to test the tea before replying, "Oh, then personal."

Draco turned silent and nibbled on his scone.

Narcissa used this chance to survey the room. Her husband would be furious when he returned home, she knew. Draco had taken a once stately office filled with noble history and familial attachment and turned it into a drab, unimpressive shadow of what it once was. He had gone so far as to remove an ornate oak escritoire which was said to have been used by a scribe of Salazar Slytherin himself. In its place stood an embarrassingly dull desk made of pine, pine for Merlin's sake. The very idea was scandalous. All other furniture save for the original emerald rug and the so-called bookcases of Draco's choosing had been stripped from the room. This included the settee that had been in the family for hundreds of years, the vases Narcissa herself had once procured, the adjustable floating silver candelabras with emerald –made of real emeralds- candles, the chandelier to match, and most appallingly, Draco had unstuck and squirreled away the dozens of Malfoy portraits that had adorned the walls, even his fathers'! She often attempted to give him valuable lessons on taste, but he had turned a deaf ear.

Thankfully for Narcissa's poor nerves, he had not destroyed these priceless items, he had merely moved then to an undisclosed location. Once she had asked, he kindly allowed her to have them placed throughout the manor, as long as the portraits were not in any place of prominence. He was a sweet boy in that sense; always acquiescing to her every request. However Narcissa Malfoy felt it a personal affront in needing to "request" such things in her own home.

But there was nothing for it. After several long years of legal battle, Draco, and Draco alone, had won the rights to the Malfoy Manor. Although, Narcissa had been spared a life of incarceration by her own deeds, she had no control over the goings-on in her home. Those ridiculous buffoons on the courts had had the audacity to go so far as to put her under house arrest, assumedly for the rest of her life. Draco was lord of the manor now. He could do with it what he will.

Narcissa for her part, chose to believe she had helped quite a bit in that regard as well. After the accident and the loss of that annoying little gnat of a wife, Draco had wallowed most horribly for days. Until she had knocked some sense into him, he had holed himself up in his rooms, refusing even to let the houseelves in to do what they were born to do, serve. No, Draco had much preferred to live in his own filth. Finally, Narcissa had swooped into the room and forced him to see how foolishly he had been behaving.

Her good natured advice had garnered horrible consequences. The very next day Draco had gone to the Aurors and offered his services. On paper, those services those in power politely declined. Draco, true to form, had insisted on a meeting in person. She wasn't quite sure what exactly had been said in its entirety, but the words "uncertain loyalties" were bandied about readily enough.

Eventually, however, Draco's tenacity had once again won out. He was offered a limited position on a probationary basis. An indignity Narcissa believed he with bore grace. He had worked his way up through the system using all the skills Narcissa knew he possessed. He was now at a relatively high level within the Aurors. He had set out and succeeded to become part of a special division that used the mind more than brute strength, much to Narcissa's relief. Unfortunately, he had seemed to have been set there for quite some time, no matter how hard he attempted to rise within the ranks.

She would say she did not understand why he had allowed himself to be insulted so by those boorish menials, but she would have been lying to herself. He did it for Harry. As he did everything for Harry

"I've been offered a position… at Hogwarts," Was Draco's reply after an exasperatingly long, dramatic pause.

Narcissa resisted the urge not to sigh in disappointment. She succeeded of course. "My dear boy, that's wonderful."

"Is it?" he asked absently, staring into the fire as he stirred his tea by hand.

"Of course," Narcissa insisted firmly. "You could be closer to Scorpius, and you would have the honor to teach at the oldest and most venerable of wizarding institutions. Honestly, I don't know why you would hesitate."

Draco finally looked up from the fire and set his cup down. He had the aplomb not to slam it to the table but he had placed it hard enough to make the cup rattle. "Because I already have a job, mother. We have discussed this."

"Yes, and I still do not agree."

Draco stood swiftly and once again walked to the window overlooking the grounds. His move had not appeared in anger - he had risen as if he needed to stretch his legs- but it gave Narcissa pause. She once again reminded herself what this was truly about and took a moment to gather her reply.

Draco and potter had grown close after the trials. Not immediately, of course. However, overtime they began to meet for tea. An occurrence that became a monthly then weekly ritual. As much as Narcissa was loath to admit, having someone to talk to, even someone as different from him as Harry Potter, had allowed Draco to speak of thing she knew he never could with her. The war was one topic Draco continually refused to discuss with his mother, or even his wife. In the aftermath, Draco did not have an abundance confidants. So, inevitably, he gravitated to the boy he had always hated and worshiped in equal parts. To say that Narcissa had been worried would be a dramatic understatement.

Still, she understood how her son felt.

She came to stand with him, a few steps behind but close enough to reach, and set a hand on his shoulder. "You are not abandoning him. You have done everything you could." She saw him stiffen to the point of seeming painful and went on. "This is not a decision that needs to be made immediately is it, my dear?" She waited a moment until he silently shook his head. "There, you see? The school year is still a month away. There is time to consider what you feel is best for you."

What's best for everyone, she thought.

Across an ocean and in a small cell, a man with a lightning bolt scar shivered within his straitjacket and tried not to scream.


End file.
